


Carpool

by rispacooper



Category: Psych
Genre: Blow Jobs, Car Sex, F/M, First Time, Foursome - F/M/M/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who doesn’t want to be wanted and desired? Carlton and Al Green have something in common: they’re both tired of being alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [entwashian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entwashian/gifts).



> For entwashian and the Psummer of Psych gift exchange. Who wanted an OT4 and/or anything Gus/Lassiter. And because “This car is cherry” does things to a woman.  
> For art inspired by this work, go [here](http://fav.me/d2yjynz). The colors! That back!
> 
> Also: Ménage à trois is a French term which originally described a domestic arrangement in which three people having sexual relations occupy the same household – the phrase literally translates as "household of three". In contemporary usage, the meaning of the term has been extended to mean any living relationship between three people, whether or not sex is involved, but because it has also been extended to refer to the actual sexual act between three people, otherwise known as a threesome, the term retains its suggestive quality.--Thanks, Wikipedia.

Carlton prided himself on his work, especially his undercover work, which is what made his current situation so insulting. He knew what the kids in their underground clubs were wearing, damn it, but the moment he’d emerged from the locker room at the station, O’Hara and the Dynamic Duo had all lit up with laughter.

He’d glared at them of course, ordered them to shut up or he’d shoot. He still didn’t see what was so funny about the white pants, or his sideways baseball hat, or the swoop of hair he’d carefully gelled across his forehead. But Spencer had been shaking his head and stealing the hat in the blink of an eye, dropping in the trash a moment later.

“Hey, I know what I’m doing,” Carlton remembered snapping, though of course, despite his extensive internet research, he’d never actually been to one of these clubs. But he didn’t think Spencer had either, for all that the man liked to pretend he was cool.

He’d looked to his partner for support, but she’d been nodding significantly at Shawn, and the authority in her attitude had distracted Carlton long enough for his indignant words to echo through the station.

“Carlton, trust us,” O’Hara had sighed as she’d turned back to him. _Maybe_ her taste was acceptable and her judgment to be trusted, but Spencer dressed like a twelve year old and had had no business offering advice. Not that that had stopped him.

“Lass, there’s clubs and then there’s _clubs_. You have to know your appeal, and dressing like a D-bag raver does nothing for you.” Spencer’s eyes had traveled over him, in a way that had suddenly reminded Carlton of just how thin his white pants were. He’d been abruptly aware of his body, that he must truly look ridiculous for the three of them to be critiquing his outfit, and not even for his dignity would Carlton screw up a case.

But he had felt a lot like he was getting ready for a date. It had been unsettling. So he’d looked at Guster. Guster was always safe, reasonable. And his fashion sense was actually pretty decent, with only occasional forays into too much pink or lavender and even those he somehow pulled off.

Guster had been wrinkling his nose.

“Those pants are _tight_ ,” he’d commented, eyebrows way up. “But I don’t think that’s your color.”

As though that had been the final word on the subject, Carlton had been sent, shooed, ordered back to the locker room to wear the outfit of their choosing.

Sure, it didn’t look that bad on him, but Carlton didn’t honestly see what about this new look was all that more “appealing” about him. They hadn’t even changed his hairstyle, though Spencer had felt the need to run his hands through it repeatedly until the gel was gone and the swoop considerably softened. Now Carlton had on black jeans, just as tight, and an equally tight black t-shirt, with “STUD” written across his chest in an embarrassingly bold white.

He’d had to put his gun in the small of his back. He hated that. It took seconds longer to draw.

At least the Wonder Twins and O’Hara hadn’t laughed at him when he’d come out of the locker room the second time. In fact, “ _Damn_ ,” had been all he’d heard, though he hadn’t caught who had said it.

Probably mocking him again, the wide-eyed stares and open mouths just their way of covering laughter. It had felt like dating all right.

Carlton shifted a little at the memory, brushing off yet another handsy piece of jailbait—damn kids were like mosquitoes tonight for some reason—and watching O’Hara work a drug peddler.

She had his attention all right. Carlton’s eyes drifted down over the shimmering top that barely covered her breasts and seemed to have no back at all, then fell to the smooth curve of her hips in that red leather skirt that was hardly low enough to conceal her gun. Her skin was lightly tanned, looked warm, and her upper thighs, and that hidden weapon, were almost visible if he just…

He jerked his eyes up and accidentally met Spencer’s gaze from across the room. He wondered if the man could see his blush, because Carlton was definitely blushing, his skin stinging and hot like he’d never seen a woman before. He hated his pale skin almost as much as he hated that Spencer had probably witnessed the flush.

Spencer was sharp-eyed, if an idiot, he might be an asset tonight, but mostly Carlton thought he had no business being here and had just tagged along to ogle O’Hara, which only meant that Spencer _really_ had no business being here. Especially now, if…Carlton mulled over his suspicions… if Spencer was emotionally involved. The thought was unexpectedly disheartening—aggravating, he meant aggravating.

Of course Carlton had no proof. But he was pretty certain that Spencer and O’Hara had been, for lack of a better and less distasteful word, dating. He wasn’t even sure to call it that because he still wasn’t sure—even after having met Spencer’s now ex-girlfriend—that Spencer could _date_ anyone… Anyone that wasn’t Guster. Those two had always seemed…a little too close. Close enough that Carlton wasn’t sure a woman wouldn’t mind it, even if the two weren’t lovers.

But perhaps it was all in Carlton’s head, O’Hara and Spencer, Spencer and Guster, Guster and…whoever Guster was currently seeing. Maybe Spencer had just upped the flirting game that he loved so much to new and terrifying new levels. Hell, the man flirted with everyone, male or female, suspected aliens, the odd feline, McNab. Even, Carlton was pretty sure, Carlton.

But, his brain argued, always spinning back to this topic as though fascinated, lately Spencer had been around the station a lot more than usual, and his obnoxious routines stopped dead now if O’Hara so much as looked at him funny. When she snapped her fingers, well, if Spencer had had any dignity to lose, the way he followed after her at that would have been the end of it.

He looked like a happy puppy. Of course, who wouldn’t, to want someone and find himself wanted in return. To have someone to laugh with. To not have to eat dinner alone, again. Any man’s tail would be wagging. He wouldn’t even mind the leash, a collar, _belonging_ , though it seemed odd to see Spencer enjoying it so much. The man could make himself belong anywhere, or so Carlton had always thought, but the truth was right in front of him.

Carlton knew the signs of a relationship as well as anyone, the teasing, the playfulness, the need to be closer, the obedience, the fear of getting left behind, he just couldn’t exactly _approve_ , even if it did mean relief from Spencer’s hands up his leg, on his thigh, under his shirt, during all his visions and sometimes just because. Spencer was at his partner’s beck and call in way he hadn’t been with that other woman. In way he had previously only, barely, been for Guster. In fact, with Guster glued to Spencer’s side, it was generally the two of them trailing after O’Hara at crime scenes, arguing with each other, laughing with each other, playfully slapping— _touching_ —each other.

He really couldn’t avoid the realization anymore. Carlton knew what he was seeing when he was left alone at those same crime scenes, and friendship wasn’t it.

Dating a coworker led to trouble and heartbreak, more than a regular relationship even, and everyone knew those led to despair and sometimes murder. Definitely divorce, and occasionally passive-aggressive notes about how maybe the station could keep him warm at night, and how maybe his suspects would meet him for dinner since he couldn’t be bothered to keep an appointment, and he couldn’t even blame anyone for that because who wanted to be left by themselves when his work came first?

It was a wonder people even bothered anymore. No way could one person ever be everything to someone else, at least not in his experience. Maybe for somebody else less dedicated. For him it was an unrealistic expectation, and when the break up inevitably happened, the best you could hope for was no attempts on your life…and that they’d let you keep your collection of Styx on vinyl.

Something inside him twisted at the thought, the way it always did. It seemed to clench harder this time, and he looked away from both Spencer and O’Hara, vaguely wondering where Guster was hiding right as Guster appeared at Spencer’s side, sipping from a drink that Spencer tried to take. He got batted away, and then offered the drink a moment later, their usual routine. Carlton studied Guster, his patient unconcern that Shawn finished his drink for him, how they tossed remarks back and forth without pause, and sighed.

Not that he envied their closeness either. He was just concerned…for Guster. Carlton knew how it felt to be the one standing on the sidelines watching other people inexplicably find their happiness. But if the man _was_ hurt by this change, if the intimacy between him and Spencer seemed to have remained unbroken.

But it wasn’t Carlton’s business if the people closest to him in the world—and how sad was that? Not one of them had thought to inform him of their change in dating status but he couldn’t seem to name anyone else who took up so much of his thoughts—had something that he couldn’t be a part of. Anyway, he had work to do. He always had work.

He raised his head as he noticed O’Hara approaching him. She was smiling, which meant she’d been successful.

But when she stopped, just short of him, her breasts against his chest when she breathed, she made an unhappy face. A moment later there was moist breath against his face and Carlton was strangely on fire for someone who felt frozen in time.

“I’m not quite sure he believes me. Better make sure he believes you’re my boyfriend,” she whispered, and Carlton had a second to try to think, to protest why that was not a good idea, and then her cherry-red-to-match-that-red-leather mouth was open over his and her body was against him. Tight. Hot. Not an inch between them.

Carlton opened his mouth, thought: O’Hara. Undercover. Partner. Maybe friend. But his fingers slid down over leather, her ass. It had been a while, and it was _leather_. As cherry as the pleather seats in his new car. He grunted, because thoughts of car meant backseat and _backseat_ did things to a man, and found skin, just on his fingertips. He didn’t push, barely moved. It was O’Hara who hitched her body up, one leg, and shoved him to the wall to roll her hips against him. He held her up without thinking, she was his partner, she trusted him, but his hand felt too large over so much bared thigh, the skin under her knee was like silk.

Not his partner. O’Hara. Juliet. A beautiful woman.

He couldn’t think and shut his eyes so he wouldn’t see the stares from across the room, childishly hoping they then couldn’t see him, but crap, god, O’Hara was sucking his tongue, intense like she always was for weird things, dancing, gun assembly, comic books. The leather rode higher, inviting his fingers to pad over hot, soft skin. But they were watching, Spencer, Guster, and…and…Carlton couldn’t think, but his blood was rushing, pounding, and then his fingertips were there, wet.

“That’s…” O’Hara tore her mouth away. “That’s enough,” she was panting, but her voice was almost normal. Carlton opened his eyes to watch her mouth, not comprehending what was coming out of it. “He should have the stuff for us tomorrow night, now that he trusts us.”

Carlton blinked. Stuff. Trust.

Work.

This was work. Of course it was.

There was that twisting pull inside him again, alongside the burn of embarrassment, because he’d obviously been, he’d been… He’d groped…

He jumped.

“O’Hara! That was! I mean…this is...” He waved down, realized he was waving at his hard on, and flushed all over again. Those idiots over there were probably cracking up, laughing at him making a fool of himself again, and his partner… Oh Christ. His partner. He coughed, couldn’t quite look in her eyes, not when he was still hard, not when he could feel dampness on his fingertips. “Are we--?”

“Shut up, Carlton,” O’Hara cut him off and Carlton swallowed the rest of his apology. He’d have to report it to the Chief just the same. With his reputation he might end up transferred, but it was the least he could do considering what he’d done.

“O’Hara.” He looked up, clenching his jaw with determination. She raised her hand, one finger, and Carlton felt his mouth closing.

“Just come with me.” She left the club without a backwards glance, probably pissed off, and Carlton followed after her with a nod. He wanted the hell out of here. He didn’t look for Spencer and Guster as he walked out, though they’d witnessed that too.

He kept his head up despite the shame, glared at a few more young idiots as they danced into his path and smiled at him. The fact that they considered this dancing, and that they considered what went on in those bathrooms dating... That wasn’t dating. Dating was getting to know someone, letting them get to know you, pretending not to care when they decided you weren’t worth knowing after all, going to down to the range to empty your clip and then going to a bar to get shit-faced.

Doing it all over again, hoping that someday, just once, you’d meet someone who knew all about you and still wanted you. Knowing it was hopeless, because if you did, what was to say that you would like them the same way?

It wasn’t for the weak, and it sure as hell wasn’t for the young and inexperienced.

They’d sure looked experienced though, and like they’d been enjoying themselves, those wild boy/girl, boy/boy, girl/girl, girl/boy/girl combos dry humping against the walls. He wished he’d felt shocked by that and not faintly envious. To be young now seemed to be something new. In his day, people had had to _choose_ , except for in college, but everyone knew college was when you were allowed to try what you’d always wanted to try. No one could live like that as an adult. Everyone knew that. Or had used to anyway.

It was a rule. He was pretty sure it was even written down somewhere. Maybe buried in the penal code.

Carlton made a small noise, then continued after O’Hara, keeping his eyes away from her high heels, the hem of that skirt as it moved.

“O’Hara,” he called out from behind her as they escaped the crowd and made their way down a few blocks to where they’d parked the Crown Vic. “I hold you in the highest—well—you’re a good enough detective, and I understand if you’d like to press charges of inappropriate--” It was hard to keep up while walking with a hard on. Especially in these pants. He was getting looks.

O’Hara looked back at him, her eyes wide, but didn’t say a word until they were next to the car. Carlton wasn’t sure, with the closest streetlight out, but he thought her cheeks were flushed.

Embarrassment probably. He could help with that.

“Or we could never mention this again if you’d prefer. Whatever you want.” He meant that.

“Carlton.” She cut him off and pulled the car keys and badge from the chain around her neck, where they’d dangled between her breasts. Carlton tried not to think about that, if the keys were warm or if her badge smelled like the flowery, feminine perfume she liked that reminded him of lilies. He’d always liked perfume. And breasts. And badges for that matter. Since his divorce, he’d always thought he could only ever fall for someone who understood law enforcement, who worked it, everyday. Too bad his fellow cops had never seemed to see it the same way.

O’Hara unlocked the car and put her hand on the door handle—the back door handle.

Carlton frowned and she frowned back at him.

“Look, Carlton, we were going to talk with you about this, but I don’t think that’s going to work, and after what happened in there...”

“We?” He started. O’Hara gave him an odd look, the way she did when he inspected his takeout for mint or poison, though after the attempts on his life, she at least no longer questioned it.

“Carlton… What do you think is happening here?” she wondered carefully and he brought his chin up. He could be dignified, even with an erection that would not go down. But it would help if he could stop thinking about her badge, or if she stopped glancing down at his pants.

“You’re angry with me…for…what…in there…with my…when I felt your…well…” It wasn’t how one spoke to a lady, or a partner, unless you were sleeping with them, and it wasn’t like Carlton was doing that again. It had turned out that even the badge hadn’t been enough.

“Carlton.” O’Hara paused, then shook her head so her hair fell down around her like she was in a shampoo commercial. Then she stepped up to him with a sigh. “I knew a talk wasn’t going to work,” she commented, and put her hand lightly but firmly over his crotch. Her other hand went to the back of his neck and she was kissing him before Carlton could ask her what in the hell she thought she was doing.

Which was good, since what she was doing was palming his dick through his tight black jeans and sliding down the zipper and—oh holy crap—touching him.

He moved, was pretty sure it was him, putting his hands on the car, and then on her. On O’Hara. They went right to red leather and then under, found her gun and more, soft, soft skin.

She was wriggling away, ending this like she should, he thought even as he was groaning against her mouth. But O’Hara only slipped to one side, and then the car door was open. Her lips dragged over his, pulled away from air, to speak, then slid back, slowly, suggestively.

“Carlton,” she whispered, and he could hear himself panting. “Get in the damn car.”

He had enough sense left to open his eyes, though he wasn’t sure what surprised him more when he did, the look in O’Hara’s eyes as she looked at him, hot, bright, like _she_ wanted _him_ , or the way she gestured at the backseat.

Women had backseat thoughts too? he wondered vaguely, as confused and horny as months without a date would make anyone, then forgot it.

“This is non regulation,” he recited, his voice thick and heavy.

“Carlton,” she answered, patiently but insistently, and suddenly Carlton was sitting in the backseat and she was climbing over him, swinging the door mostly closed behind her. Not that he cared, she could have been the only person in the world, and worth getting locked inside his own car.

The interior light came on. O’Hara settled in his lap, making him swear because wet, and hot, and tight didn’t begin to cover it and they were both still dressed. And then, and then, she made an impatient sound and pulled her top up.

“Carlton,” she said again, on the right side of demanding, and he nodded and obeyed. Skin, so much lightly-tanned skin, and breasts, and _taste_ , and O’Hara made noises, encouraging, rough, and toyed with his hair. Her fingernails scraped lightly past his ears, and his tongue was…his tongue was on her, against beaded skin that smelled like lilies. When his fingers moved over her stomach and pulled at her skirt she made more sounds. He liked them, thought about what it would take to earn more.

But she pushed him back in the next second, only to follow him down to kiss him. She pulled the leather out of the way herself, rolled it to her hips as she moved against him, and he thought again, faintly, that this beautiful woman wanted him. There had to be some mistake.

Naked, O’Hara was almost naked except for her gun, and she moaned when Carlton tugged at the strap and took it off her, when he rubbed at the chafed skin. She shouldn’t be hurt, should have been taken care of.

“O’Hara,” he tried, pushing past a tiny thong because he was only human, and making her gasp because…because he wanted to. A part of him always had.

He’d thought she disliked him. Thought he was too weird. Too violent or rough. His wet fingers said otherwise. She was pulsing against him. For the first time he pushed up, asked for her mouth. Her kiss was sweet, giving, and then hungry again. He didn’t fight getting pushed against the back of the seat this time, only shivered at the scrape of her fingernails over the bold white letters.

“Carlton,” she sighed back at him for it, the sound almost _pleased_. “You can call me Juliet when one of us is naked.”

“I don’t have anything,” Carlton answered, stupidly, instantly, hard with _Juliet O’Hara_ half-naked in his lap, then realized what he’d said. And what she’d said. “What?”

He couldn’t think. The pleather wasn’t even close to being as soft. Her thighs were firm, and he was allowed to touch them, and it couldn’t last, nothing ever did, but he was here now.

“Trust me, partner,” Juliet murmured impatiently, breathless, smiling a bit like Spencer, and Spencer, Spencer. Carlton tried to think about Spencer, as though this was cheating, and for once Spencer would be on the outside.

Spencer and Guster both, somehow, but Carlton’s chest tightened just the same, because no one deserved that, but O’Hara was reaching over to her gun, fiddling with the strap. Then she held up a single condom, the kind you bought in club bathrooms, and Carlton had the brief, confused idea that she’d been expecting this to happen.

Except that was ridiculous.

“We’ll go slow some other time, okay?” The confusing question knocked him from his daze, and then he was focusing on her mouth, and her body, and the sound of the foil being torn open as the light went off.

 

 

To say the next day was awkward would have been an understatement. It had been beyond awkward—for Carlton as he’d avoided prolonged eye contact and muttered every question but the one he really wanted to ask. Juliet—O’Hara—his _partner_ hadn’t seemed any different. Well, she hadn’t acted any differently that Carlton had seen. Not that he’d been watching her obsessively or mooning over that little strand of hair that kept falling out of the bun at the back of her neck. He’d just been watching her for signs of trouble, or physical evidence of what had happened, or maybe hints that he’d been dosed with something illegal in that club and he’d dreamed the whole thing.

He’d considered going to the Chief—if it hadn’t been a dream, it had to get reported soon, especially with his history—but he knew better than to attempt that without O’Hara’s say so.

Not that he had to listen to O’Hara. She was still his junior partner, and he could have imagined the sex in the car, must have, because she still seemed to be with Spencer, as far as he could tell and his partner wasn’t the type to cheat and not feel guilty. He refused to believe that. Anyway, he was senior partner here. It had just been a coincidence that when they’d left to go to a murder scene that she’d taken the keys and walked ahead of Carlton so that he’d have to follow her.

At least he was back in a suit, and properly armed. And so was she, her badge on display at her waist, just like his. That was what was important, thank goodness O’Hara understood that.

She’d insisted on stopping for coffee on the way, when they were already late, which had at least made him snap “What the hell, O’Hara?” at her before he could call it back and looked directly at her. She’d actually looked at him then, and grinned like he’d done something right.

Kind of like the way she did when he’d…

He wasn’t thinking about that, though he burned to think that somehow, they were sharing a joke, a moment.

“You need it,” was all O’Hara had said when the moment had passed, only in that tone she’d used before in the backseat, that said she knew him, what he was really saying, and then, thankfully, both of them had blushed and she’d gone inside.

At least the moment had been enough for him to slide his shades and his game face on, accept the venti coffee she’d brought him because yes, he’d needed some caffeine after a sleepless night, and to prepare to handle a homicide. She’d had her game face on by then too, and Carlton wasn’t sure what the feeling in his chest had been to see that. Relief. Regret. Anything. Emotions that didn’t matter.

He still had work. Work always needed him.

His somewhat restored mood had faded once they’d arrived at the crime scene to find Spencer and Guster already there, waiting by that ridiculous blue car with the practically non-existent backseat. O’Hara had barely greeted the pair, not that it mattered, Spencer had skipped ahead of them until Carlton had ordered him to at least stay out of their way if he wasn’t going to leave.

The unexpected leniency of which had gotten Spencer’s attention on him, which Carlton hadn’t wanted. He had _not_ been after getting those quick eyes to travel all over him, or those hands to do the same, and he definitely hadn’t longed to be accepted into his crazy little club, or to get read by those not psychic but somehow real abilities of his.

It was strange enough to realize how well O’Hara knew him. He didn’t want Spencer to know anything about him too, or to suspect anything about the night before.

He wasn’t afraid. Spencer was hardly a physical threat; he was too soft, too out of shape for that. If anything, Spencer was the one who needed protection, for his big mouth and his dumb impulses. Yes, Carlton had shoved him around often enough, especially in the beginning, but it had been for his own good. Despite what Spencer seemed to think when he whined at Carlton for being too mean and kicking him off cases, Carlton didn’t want to see him hurt. He didn’t like to see anyone but the bad guys get hurt. Spencer wasn’t a cop, and he was often an idiot, and generally strange, but he wasn’t a bad guy in Carlton’s book.

He helped people. That was, unfortunately, undeniable. And he cared about his friends. Cared about O’Hara, and Guster...the verdict was still out about Henry. Shawn just put himself, and occasionally others, at risk with his inability to think anything through, and, Carlton clenched his fists, Shawn needed people around to keep him in check.

Carlton—someone—had to keep an eye on him at all times. It was distracting. That was all. Spencer had this way of flailing that could take anyone’s mind of their work, that could make them forget what they were talking about to watch him in a daze and admire the verbal and physical gymnastics taking place, and to sometimes wonder if the man really was magic.

The thought was vaguely embarrassing. As embarrassing as any other thoughts he might have about the man. But none of them were to ever—truly—wish him—serious—bodily harm.

Which, if Spencer really was any kind of psychic, he should have known. Maybe he did. Maybe it was why he pushed Carlton the way he did. And it was pushing, even by Spencer’s irritating standards. Pushing, though toward what Carlton had no idea. But he wasn’t going to waste time thinking about it when there were cases to solve.

Especially this case.

It hadn’t been pleasant, walking into that apartment and finding the drug dealer from the club dead on the floor, feathers from the pillows that had been used to muffle the gunshots sticking in the pool of blood beneath him.

Even Spencer hadn’t had anything to say about that. For a full thirty seconds.

Carlton had exchanged a look with O’Hara. She didn’t believe in coincidence either. Her frown had been unhappy, but completely professional.

This wasn’t their fault. The man was a pusher who sold to teenagers, no one was going to mourn him. But Carlton’s mouth had turned down.

“I want who did this.” Carlton’s money was on the man’s supplier, but it could have been anyone. A customer. A girlfriend, a…

“A boyfriend.” Spencer of course had had his own crazy theory that would probably end up being right no matter how stupid it seemed at first. He’d fluttered around the room for a while, pretending to talk to the IKEA lamps and then coming to a stop by the mp3 player resting on the nightstand. Carlton had stomped over to him to keep him from touching it before it was dusted for prints.

“He was all over O’Hara last night,” he had pointed out, tired, with a wasted sting operation and a murder possibly on his head, but naturally, Spencer had been in no mood to leave him alone. He’d pushed. Like always.

“He wasn’t the only one…” he’d whispered in an aside to Guster, making Carlton’s hands curl into fists. Carlton still wasn’t sure what the flickers of emotion in Spencer’s eyes had meant, if the man _was_ jealous, or hurt, or just in the mood for pizza despite the body almost at his feet.

Of course Spencer knew. Carlton’s heart had kicked against his ribs, his gaze going over to Guster in search of…something…explanation maybe, to what Spencer was feeling, if Carlton should apologize or tell him to back off, but Guster was watchful and silent. Not blank-faced, because if anyone should never play poker, ever, it was Guster, but clearly waiting for something.

“Boyfriend?” Carlton had finally demanded, willing to play along, and even hours later had no idea why Spencer had smiled widely at that. Carlton understood what bisexuality was, whatever Spencer thought. He understood only too well.

“Uh uh. The jealous type too. I hear from those dwelling in the Afterlife that he was fond of Beyoncé. Specifically, _Ring the Alarm_. Someone people are so unenlightened.”

“I heard that.” Guster had unexpectedly agreed. “Though I don’t think it’s unenlightened if he didn’t know, Shawn.”

“You have a point, my friend,” Spencer had continued their insanity calmly, as though it had all made perfect sense. Maybe it had, to them. Carlton had been left wondering if they were making fun of him again.

They must have been, because Spencer had been up in his business about everything for the rest of the day. Carlton had thought they’d moved past some of those insults, his hair, his suits, his skills as a detective, but maybe Spencer had seen the guilt on his face and was jealous, or hurt, or just _unenlightened_ after all his talk to Guster, and striking out.

On the way out of the apartment: “Moving a little slow, Lass. Have a late night? _Bachelorette_ marathon?”

By the Echo as he and O’Hara had discussed their next move: “Lass! Did you stop for coffee on your way to a crime scene? Isn’t that against your rules? Next thing you know you’ll be having fun.”

At the station: “Gus, not every one takes fashion as seriously as you. Look at Lassie, have you ever seen a manlier combination of plaid and stripes?”

Guster at least had pointed out that Carlton wasn’t wearing plaid before telling his friend to shut up. It hadn’t worked, Shawn had just had to point out, to somehow _know_ , that Carlton had been wearing plaid boxers.

“But it’s Wednesday. Lassie wears the plaid on Wednesdays!” Spencer had protested right as Carlton had given in to the impulse to grab him by the collar and escort him out into the hallway.

Okay, so Carlton had _some_ desire to see Spencer hurt. But only by someone who knew why, someone who wouldn’t take it too far, someone who made Spencer’s mouth fall open into that soft little cherry red circle, made him have to nervously wet his lips before speaking. Someone who would do it just to remind Spencer that he wasn’t in charge here.

Someone that should have been Carlton, but had clearly been O’Hara. She had appeared before Carlton had managed a word, or let anything stupid about last night slip out. Spencer had shrugged out of his grip with an annoying little finger wave and a “TTFN, Lass,” leaving behind the scent of smoothie and gender-ambiguous cologne. The smell was irritatingly similar to O’Hara’s perfume, like flowers, but with sandalwood, just that slight edge that meant _man_.

A part of Carlton had wanted to call Spencer back—they hadn’t been finished. But the rest of him was aware that he wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. He never knew what to say around Spencer that wouldn’t start the cycle again. He speaks. Spencer mocks. He steps closer and threatens. Spencer glows.

And… Carlton was tired. That was the only explanation for that last thought. It wasn’t like Spencer wanted him to play along and got ridiculously happy when he did.

The rest of the day had been wasted chasing down leads on the boyfriend—because of course there was a boyfriend because Spencer had said so—who had left traces of his presence all over that apartment, and finding Spencer already there, with Guster, of course with Guster. Their insane dream of living next door each other after they married didn’t seem so crazy once you got to know them. Carlton didn’t know of any two people patient enough to marry either of them, but if they could find them, those two would attempt to make that arrangement work.

No one was that patient. Carlton snorted.

Yes, if you sat through Spencer’s frenzied reveals long enough—or learned to cut them short—you’d find something useful. And yes, most of the other things Spencer claimed were all innocent bluster, something Carlton, and O’Hara, had learned with years of experience, but he seriously doubted anyone else was willing to make the attempt.

He still wasn’t sure why O’Hara had bothered, and wasn’t going to imagine reasons, though most of the reasons that came to mind anyway involved Spencer making good on all his flirting and teasing and images of the two of them doing things that would have made Hugh Hefner blush because Spencer liked public and apparently, so did O’Hara, or just didn’t mind.

Guster had even made an appearance in a few scenarios, and Carlton was only furiously grateful that by then almost everyone around him had gone home for the day, including Spencer and Company.

He’d assumed those three, or two, or some combination of the above, had gone to dinner. He’d stayed behind to finish up paperwork, hesitating, but still not going in to see the Chief about what had happened last night. And when it couldn’t be avoided anymore, he got up, gathered his things, and went out to his car to go home.

To his empty home.

He was getting maudlin. He should be grateful to have gotten laid and still have a partner, not moping because he didn’t share anything with a best friend, or that he couldn’t call that partner to talk because she was out with her possible boyfriend.

Also he wasn’t going to call to talk about his feelings. What was he, a little girl?

But a bar would mean noise and annoying people, not to mention the fact that it was a work night. For whatever reason, his Glock didn’t seem enough either. The range would be just as abandoned at this time of day, which made no sense, even to him; he didn’t want to be around people, but he wanted company.

He wanted _specific_ company, he realized with a sigh, knowing he wasn’t going to get it. A bar was sounding more and more appealing. But he had a killer to catch in the morning. There was only one other place he found comforting, aside from a nineteenth century Old West town that had recently been sold and demolished.

He drove to the regional park where they held their Reenactments, way out into the middle of nowhere, and then got out to stare at the sunset. His Reenactment partners…associates…brothers and sisters in arms…were the only other people in the world he could possibly have considered as friends and even if they’d been there, he’d never have told them anything.

In fact, the last few times he’d opened up to anyone, it had been to O’Hara, Spencer, and Guster. They hadn’t even laughed…much.

His long sigh was the only sound except for the distant roar of a motorcycle approaching. He flinched even before he turned to see Spencer parking his bike and removing his helmet.

Of course. Carlton blamed the rush of heat under his skin on anger and stood up.

“Aw! Sad Lassie is sad,” Shawn remarked, and maybe it was the pity in his tone, but it was the last straw on a confusing, frustrating, long day. “What can I do to--?”

Whatever Spencer had been going to say turned into a squawk as Carlton grabbed him by his light pink shirt and hauled him against the Crown Vic. Not hard enough to dent the car, it was new after all, and Carlton wasn’t a sadist. Just hard enough to get Spencer’s attention, take his mind off bad movies and tv shows and anything Zane-related and get it right on Carlton.

Not that Spencer had been looking at anything else before, but Carlton liked to be thorough. His hand was pressed to Shawn’s chest to keep him still, and he felt every hard breath as he glanced around. There was no sign of Guster. Or O’Hara.

He kept his confusion from his face, though for all he knew, Spencer and O’Hara had had a fight, or Spencer had snuck away for this. Whatever this was.

“This your attempt at a macho confrontation, Spencer?” Carlton turned back to demand and got a wide-eyed stare in return. Spencer licked his lips, looked down and then up, and only then did Carlton realize how close he was to the other man. Arms on either side of him, their chests nearly touching with every quick breath. If he took a step, his thigh could slide between Spencer’s legs.

Spencer moved at the thought, mind reading maybe, because he widened his stance.

“What?” he wondered, a few seconds too slow, and Carlton felt himself get hotter as he realized that _macho_ was the last word anyone would ever use to describe Shawn Spencer. He wore flannel but he got his nails done. Stared at dead bodies without flinching but ran squealing from loud noises. Followed after women like an eager puppy but curled up like a kitten on the lap on the nearest strong man.

Carlton inhaled sharply at the thought, got another whiff of that cologne.

“Don’t…” Focus. He could focus, despite the idea creeping into his head that Spencer’s flirting hadn’t been as meaningless as he’d previously assumed. “Don’t pretend not to understand me, Spencer. Is this about…” He couldn’t quite make himself mention O’Hara by name without knowing for sure that that was why Spencer was here. “…Last night?”

“Why? What happened last night?” Shawn stared back at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about because I wasn’t there, so I had nothing to witness. If there was something that happened after that hot and heavy kissing and groping session in the club, say in the backseat of this very car, then how would I know?”

“Spencer…” Embarrassment, anger, arousal were making Carlton’s voice low, almost a growl. The time for experiments had been long ago, but if there was someone to make Carlton miss his college days, it was Shawn Spencer. He’d never gone for rough, not ever, but with Spencer he wanted to. He wanted to grab him by his collar and force him down, to be quiet, or spin him around and make him get even louder, and yes, okay, he’d relived crushing Spencer against his car too many times to count.

Thoughts of O’Hara weren’t surprising. She was beautiful. Hot. Smart. A good cop and a good partner who had his back. Of course he’d want her. Spencer was none of those things.

No, that wasn’t true. In his way, Spencer had Carlton’s back. In his way he was beautiful, and smart. Flexible warm body and quick, clever mind. His eyes were every color in the world and promised just about everything that anyone had ever promised anyone else in an attempt to get laid.

Thoughts of Spencer were frightening, because no way could Spencer possibly back up all those promises, no matter how much Carlton had secretly always wanted him to.

Carlton released that pink shirt, only to grab it again and look up. Spencer’s mouth was open, much darker than that pink, as though he’d bitten his lips, licked them.

“You have nothing to be jealous about.” Carlton wasn’t sure if it was a lie or not, but was momentarily willing to accept the gray area. O’Hara hadn’t seemed guilty, but she obviously wasn’t going to want Carlton again, so the truth was that he was no kind of threat to Spencer.

“Don’t be a ruffled penguin, of course I do.” Shawn leaned back into the car, angling his head back. It, coincidentally or not, left his face upturned and his mouth open. He frowned, looking honestly confused when Carlton only studied him and didn’t comment. Or lean down to kiss that mouth.

Spencer blinked. Carlton looked away. He couldn’t believe he was thinking like this, today of all days. But Spencer was being quiet now and, galling though it was, Carlton owed him something.

“I don’t…” To say he didn’t like Spencer was a lie. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Spencer.” He said instead, and raised his head to see Shawn blinking again. Then the other man squinted, all pre-vision stillness.

“Lass… What do you think is happening here?” He wondered, gesturing with one hand. “Here we are, putting all the moves out there, and there you are… At first I thought you were just being a shy bear, or didn’t want to play, but now I’m thinking you’re clueless like Alicia Silverstone.”

Out of nowhere, Shawn smiled.

“What?” This wasn’t funny. Carlton glared, then jumped at Spencer’s hands roaming over his chest, up his chest. He thought, _better check my wallet_. Then, _better check my gun_. Then, _for god’s sake, Spencer don’t stop_. Then he looked up.

“As though we’d leave you out in the cold, Lassie,” Spencer chided him, smirking in the most irritating way conceivable. He put his hands up to Carlton’s face and opened his mouth just as Carlton bent down. Because Spencer knew, of course he did, he read minds, was annoyingly magic.

“Come out come out wherever you are,” he whispered playfully, right against Carlton’s mouth, and Carlton closed his eyes.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It had been years—for Carlton at least—and there was too much tension between them for that.

Anyway, he didn’t need to be gentle with Spencer. Spencer didn’t want it. Spencer didn’t want any part of a pretense because he saw right through them.

He yanked Carlton down, mumbled impatience against his mouth, and then groaned at the sweep of his tongue. His legs opened and Carlton stepped in so his hands could wander, drag down over flannel and jeans and the soft yet firm body of a man, of Shawn Spencer. He’d never expected to have this. Any part of this.

Years. And at the hard throb Carlton felt himself swelling too, dizzy and hungry and furious all at once. Spencer knew. Had known. How much Carlton liked men. Liked him. And about the only good thing about it, about revealing so much need that he was crushing Spencer to his car once again, was that Spencer liked it, loved it, begged for more with little wriggles and greedy fingers.

“Lass. Lassie. Carlton.” Spencer was loud. “She said…I hoped…but whoa.”

The _she_ was obvious and Carlton pulled back, just his mouth, his swollen, buzzing, starving mouth, shuddered against all of Spencer’s heat, at what he was doing, what he could do. He shook his head.

“Juliet,” he tried, the name just slipping out, and felt his face sting at the quiet way Shawn laughed, as though Carlton still wasn’t getting it. He supposed he wasn’t. If Shawn and O’Hara weren’t dating, or they were and trading Carlton between them, if they both knew he was so desperate for this that he couldn’t say no.

But it was Spencer who seemed helpless when Carlton squeezed his hips and forced him back for another kiss. He moaned weakly and allowed it, whimpering when one kiss ended and he had to wait for another, allowing Carlton’s hands to slip into his jeans, to touch him.

Carlton wondered, vaguely, distantly, if Shawn was like this with O’Hara too, then wondered at the lack of a burn at the thought. There was only curiosity, and a need to have Shawn like this, and then sadness because he’d never know.

He brought his hands up, to Spencer’s collar, and grabbed a handful. But Shawn anticipated him again, and slid down before he could be urged to do it. Carlton moved back, just a step, startled, then fell forward and had to hold himself up against the Crown Vic when Shawn was talking again, against his fly, against his dick.

His swearing was obscene, but not nearly as dirty, and arousing, as his impatience, as though he’d waited years too.

Carlton glanced around, harried, worried, but though this was public, he didn’t see any pretending-to-be-real-cops park rangers around. At the same time he thought that this might be worth any possible arrest or inter-agency humiliation.

He was wearing plaid boxers, as predicted, and couldn’t feel any shame at that idea either, though his mind was spinning. Spencer was… Spencer knew him, down to his underwear, and he was still here.

 _Why?_ He wanted to ask. Why the hell Spencer was here? Why he and O’Hara were doing this to him? How long could it last? But though his mouth worked, no sounds came out, not until there were lips and tongue and his boxers were completely out of his mind and Spencer’s way.

Not all of Spencer’s bluster was innocent after all.

 

 

When it was all over and done, when Spencer had looked him over as he’d hovered uncertainly by his car door and then given one loose shrug, Carlton had still gone home to his empty house. He’d eaten, he’d had a beer, he’d brushed his teeth and gotten into bed, and he had most definitely not allowed himself to think about any of it.

He didn’t care what department shrinks, or ex-wives, or ex-girlfriends, or ex-college roommates-with-benefits named Scott said: focusing on work during a time of stress wasn’t unhealthy at all.

It allowed you to forget the way your partner, for instance, had fallen against you to catch her breath after coming, and how easy it had been to hold her and stroke her back as she’d calmed down. Or the way that an otherwise annoying psychic investigator had felt, tasted, in your mouth as he’d called out your name, how giving he’d been, even afterward, zipping you up before casually offering you a piece of gum.

Or the way both of them had gone away once it had all been over. To their separate homes, to a shared apartment, house, Carlton had no idea. Because he wasn’t thinking about it.

What he was doing was waking up early to go over his case notes and try to think of some other place where they could search for their dead drug dealer’s boyfriend while they waited for forensics to get back to them.

He’d also gone to the gym to work out, and dropped off his dry cleaning, and stopped at a diner for breakfast.

That was where he was, having a sensible, if lonely, meal of an egg-white omelet and English muffins with turkey bacon that never tasted like real bacon no matter what anyone said, when he got the call confirming the finger prints and identity of the boyfriend. It was exactly the name that Spencer had offered, but that still required confirmation. Spencer and Guster hadn’t needed to take it so personally.

It was also where he was when O’Hara had called to tell him that she had Patrol looking for their suspect’s car.

He was at the station, gritting his teeth and meeting O’Hara eyes when Patrol let them know they’d found the car. He drove them down to look it over, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, only too aware that O’Hara was squinting at him in concern.

Her usual concern, maybe, but it didn’t feel usual. It felt too pointed and slightly hurt and guilt-inducing in a way that was making Carlton feel married again. As though he’d done something wrong when he hadn’t. He’d been minding his own business this whole time. And he was the one who’d had to go home alone, and he’d be damned if he was going to give her an opportunity for some pitying speech or humiliating explanation that she and Spencer were swingers, or whatever the hell was happening here.

Patrol had found the car so fast because it had already been ticketed a few times where it had been parked all night. O’Hara had called for the warrant, and while they were waiting, Spencer and Guster had driven up. Naturally, because Carlton wasn’t going to get a moment’s peace until this case was solved and he could get royally drunk.

Spencer had squinty eyes too. For the case, Carlton had thought, watching that narrowed, focused look come and go on Spencer’s face as the man had danced around the searched car and the array of garbage and receipts that Carlton and O’Hara had spread out on the hood. But when the dance had been over, and Spencer had darted in between the two of them, his glance at Carlton had been almost admonishing.

Then he’d made a crack about coffee breath and offered O’Hara a piece of gum. He’d held the package up to Carlton too, without a word, and made a face when Carlton had slipped his sunglasses on and turned away without accepting it.

Guster took it instead, but at least his attempt at a glare was aimed at Spencer. He chewed so forcefully that Carlton got a whiff of spicy cinnamon when he spoke.

“And what now, Shawn?” he demanded. “Anything else brilliant you want to try?” It made Spencer blink rapidly, as though he was startled, before he covered it with a careless grin.

“Most of these receipts are for bars. One’s from a hotel,” O’Hara pointed out, drawing their attention.

“Maybe he was cheating too.” Carlton was breathing a little too hard. Guster’s eyebrows went up. His partner’s went down. Spencer just stared at him. “What?” Carlton could fake innocence too, the same way he could pretend that none of this had ever happened.

“It’s only cheating if they don’t know,” Guster repeated his thoughts from yesterday, but then he paused. “That’s sleazy…unless of course it’s your only chance with Rebecca Lindell and your girlfriend’s out of town.”

“Gus, you dog.” Spencer actually put up his fist for a bump. “Every time you tell that story I’m more impressed with your manly prowess.” Carlton held back a snarl and stalked around the car to pop the trunk. There wasn’t a body in it, which, though it would have been unpleasant, and stinky, at least would have given Carlton more to work with. What there was, were lots of dried leaves and bits of dirt. In the back there were a few scraps of ribbon and some wilted piles of orchids with the stems cut short.

He picked one up, staring at the fading dots and stripes, the color, and felt a presence beside him that he took for O’Hara. He held it out, muttering something about bagging it, and jerked when Guster responded.

“Yellow cymbidium,” he informed Carlton helpfully. “I had to wear one as a boutonnière at my cousin’s wedding. All the groomsmen did. They last really well for an orchid. No real scent though.” But he was already gone when Carlton turned to look at him, gone and walking back to whisper to Spencer, and somehow, it wasn’t a surprise when Spencer immediately called out, “I’m getting a vision! It’s a garden, no! It’s prom corsage, no! It’s a shop…a shop full of flowers…”

No, the surprise was in noticing the flicker of irritation and then smugness in Guster’s expression. Luckily, Carlton now had work to keep him from feeling the burn at watching Spencer’s magic in the full light of day with his eyes wide open, and from wondering why Guster would do what he’d just done, or stopping to sniff at the orchids.

Or he should have. But tracking their suspect down to the florist shop where he worked—because he may have committed homicide, but he’d had to go into work because they had another wedding to prepare for, because even killer florists used work as a way to avoid their problems—had only taken a few hours.

Interrogation hadn’t taken much longer than that. Maybe it was the way Carlton had sat down across from him, and sighed when he should have snarled, and said, “I know all about it, but why don’t you tell me your side anyway?” but the man had looked back at him and then started to cry before spilling everything.

Of course, it could also have been because O’Hara had been there too and the man had recognized her from the club and realized that though his boyfriend may have been a cheater, he hadn’t been going to cheat with this particular woman.

He’d cried harder when she’d read him his rights. About his boyfriend. The one he’d murdered. Lamenting all his good qualities and the fun they’d had.

Apparently, he didn’t mind the drug dealing, just the cheating. It was amazing the things people would overlook in their quest for love.

With the forensics and that confession, conviction should be a lock. And that was what Carlton tried to think about as he did the paperwork. Not the things he’d been willing to overlook, foolishly, like lying about psychic abilities, or possible cheating on one’s possible boyfriend/girlfriend. Or wonder what cheating meant exactly if you _did_ know about it. If everyone did. But what the hell kind of relationship was that anyway? Nothing Carlton had ever heard of, outside of HBO, because _Big Love_ was kind of a good show if you were into that sort of thing, which he wasn’t, because he was _normal_. And why in the hell had Guster dropped what he had today? The man was too smart not to at least eventually realize that he’d given everything away. What then? Was Carlton supposed to forgive and forget and ignore the law?

He had no proof anyway. Which, maybe, Guster had known. Carlton didn’t think Guster was the type to take chances—he drove an Echo—but still, something about it didn’t add up. Guster might be cautious, but he was also best friends with Shawn Spencer.

Best friends and business partners, if those two even knew what partnership meant. Carlton personally had no idea and told himself he didn’t care. The whole—he refused to call it _affair_ and substituted _episode_ \--was something he should just forget.

The case was wrapped up, with everything but a bow, and that was the reason Carlton allowed himself to sit back and stare out at the station the second he’d crossed every T and dotted every I and checked and rechecked his reports three times.

Delaying long enough had meant that everyone else, everyone else who mattered anyway, had gone home. He’d successfully avoided their stares as much as he’d avoided thinking about any of it, and on that note, congratulating himself, he grabbed his jacket and left for the day.

He didn’t go home. He was hungry and he’d promised himself a drink. _Rusterman’s Bar & Grill_ was just the sort of place where he could have his steak and his scotch and be left in peace. Once upon a time he’d come here with Victoria, but these days they were used to him showing up alone. They always gave him a booth anyway. Room enough for several other people, he should have enjoyed it. Today it just felt mocking.

He was halfway through glass number one and waiting on his entrée, possibly slouched over his table, when he noticed the man at bar discreetly signaling him.

The attempt at suavity identified the man more than even his lilac dress shirt and sleek jacket. Carlton watched with only the vaguest, dullest possible sense of surprise as Guster took that as his cue to leave the bar and walk over to his table.

Guster seeking him out. They were possibly having snowball fights in hell.

“All alone, detective? May I join you?” Imitating James Bond apparently, Guster had his drink in one hand. It had a plastic monkey on the rim and three cherries swirling in the bottom. The drink itself looked like soda, probably Coke. There was a straw.

Carlton took a swig of his drink, scotch, neat, and then gave in and nodded. There were a lot of ways this could go, but he didn’t think any of them would be especially pleasant. He took another sip and leaned back as Guster sat down.

Guster didn’t seem to be in any mood to start the hostilities however, he made himself comfortable, and smiled winningly at a passing waiter before asking that his order of a twice baked potato and chicken be sent to this table. Carlton was oddly grateful for the manners; he liked this restaurant, he wanted to be able to come back here with good memories.

He supposed Guster wasn’t like Spencer, even if he did make the occasional scene or two. But for right now he seemed to be about his dinner.

Carlton waited too, only speaking when Guster ordered another drink for him without asking.

“I can order for myself. I’m not a complete idiot, despite what you two seem to think.”

“We don’t think that.” Guster was mild. “Well, not anymore. Anyway you started it, arresting Shawn like that.”

Carlton snorted. “Can you really blame me?”

Guster shrugged, and thanked the waiter for the second scotch. Carlton shrugged and took it. He was adding it to Guster’s bill though. He tried to ignore the rest of what had been said, but couldn’t. Guster was always reasonable. Even, usually, sensible. And the man could wear a suit.

Carlton liked suits. It was nice to seem someone else who appreciated them, who understood the effort of finding the right color, the right size, who looked good in ironed slacks and a crisp shirt and knew exactly what two buttons undone at the collar made other people think of. Who could roll up his sleeves and look like an adult man with work on his mind. Work to do. Heavy lifting. It made him want to ask why Guster was all dressed up but eating alone, but the answer might be embarrassing for both of them if Guster had been left on his own by the other two.

The thought made Carlton frown, and when the server brought his steak he gestured for Guster to get another Cherry Coke or whatever it was. He refused to think that it pleased the other man, but he saw the hint of a smile. But the surprise after that made him sit up and pay attention, in case Guster thought Carlton was lacking in manners.

He wasn’t…it had just been a while since he’d shared a meal with anyone that wasn’t O’Hara as they’d worked a case.

“About that,” Guster started again while Carlton sat and inhaled his steak since he couldn’t eat it yet. He almost dug in anyway, rude or not, since he was suddenly starving, but he found he didn’t want to earn a disapproving stare from the other man. That was strange. He liked…didn’t mind…Guster, but he’d never especially cared what he thought. Except when he had something useful to offer for a case, or might drop a fashion hint. Carlton may have always been a little too interested in Guster’s demonstrations of random knowledge, but he didn’t need the man’s approval. “You know, Shawn has a genetic inability to explain anything. Even simple things.”

Simple. Carlton glanced over and went for drink number two. Bad idea on an empty stomach, but he’d earned it. That “STUD” shirt had been mocking him from the top of his hamper for two days now.

“I’ll drink to that,” Carlton offered, somewhat taken aback when Guster frowned but shrugged again. The man was loyal; it was another trait in his favor. It was too bad he was wasting it on Spencer. Carlton knew all about that. He raised his glass to show he hadn’t meant anything by it, and after a beat, Guster raised his Coke and clinked his glass.

“You…you have an enviable friendship,” Carlton pointed out after swallowing more scotch and getting dizzy on liquor and steak fumes. He was hungry. It was why his voice trembled when he said it. He changed his mind before he could add more, like how the closest thing he had to that was his partnership with O’Hara and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have that if they weren’t assigned together. Even his marriage wouldn’t have made it through the stops and starts and trials of Burton Guster’s friendship with Shawn Spencer. He wondered if that friendship could survive all of this, if it already had. What Guster had that kept Spencer coming back.

“It’s about knowing him. He already knows everything about me.” Guster sounded like he was giving a reading at a wedding. Carlton jerked upright, startled by his own thought, and bit back everything he wanted to ask. Guster went on, too seriously for a man with a plastic monkey hanging from his drink. “He’s kind of a jerk, and thoughtless, and rude, and completely insane.”

Carlton nodded, listening despite himself.

“He’s also there for me when it matters, and forgiving, and wants what’s best for me even when we don’t agree on what that is. He’s also usually right.”

“I’ve noticed,” Carlton remarked sourly. Gus sniffed.

“That pisses people off, people like you. I don’t care if you want to shoot me for saying that, it’s true.”

Carlton blinked, startled, but Guster’s chin was up. He might be poised to run for his life, but he was also trying his best to be brave. It wasn’t the first time either. Carlton felt an odd flicker of heat, like protectiveness, or admiration—if he ever felt admiration for anyone outside of law enforcement.

He took another sip, then leaned across the booth, put a hand on Guster’s arm without thinking. Guster did not pull away, though he did meet Carlton’s gaze. The man was like a furnace. The touch burned even through clothes. Carlton stared back, fought another question, then gave up.

“What about O’Hara?” He sat back and scowled. Threateningly, out of habit, though he’d thought that Guster had stopped being afraid of him over a year ago. He’d wanted Guster to see reason, to stay out of trouble, to stop making fun of him, not to be afraid of him. Guster always seemed to have enough problems. He had a real job too after all. And he was best friends with Shawn Spencer. That had to be a pain in the ass in every respect, but especially when they competing for women.

Carlton had seen that, had even seen Guster try to make time with O’Hara back in the beginning, back before Spencer had staked his claim.

“Juliet?” Guster wondered, and smiled. Carlton wasn’t sure if it was for O’Hara or for his food as it was set in front of him. But he said O’Hara’s name unlike anyone else. Gently, fondly, the way it ought to be said. _Juliet._ Like she was special, which, Carlton supposed, she was. He just hadn’t known that Guster had felt it too. But it strengthened his case.

“I don’t want Spencer to hurt her.” Carlton ground out. “Just because you trust him doesn’t mean she should.”

“Juliet is a determined and very sensual woman who can take care of herself.” Guster raised his voice, then shrugged again. “Anyway, I don’t think _Shawn’s_ who you have to worry about.” His eyebrows were up, way up. Carlton looked down at his food, imagined O’Hara above him again, the taste of her skin. He could imagine Spencer too, laid out on the hood of his car, taste him too, every patch of skin he’d been allowed to bare, nearly all of him because not once had Spencer said no, and he hadn’t been laughing, not even a little, when Carlton had taken him in his mouth.

If Guster knew everything, then he knew about that. Carlton looked back up. Then he blinked. Had Guster said “sensual”?

“Are you some kind of ambassador? I don’t want an apology.” He didn’t want to ever talk about it again if it meant apologies and nothing else.

Apparently used to dealing with random outbursts, Guster ignored this one and put his napkin in his lap. “I’m starving. You should eat too.” He was also apparently used to mothering people.

Carlton resented the implication that he was somehow like Spencer, but feeling like a kid being scolded, he faced his steak. The scotch had its way with him, like everything else lately, and he was halfway through before he realized that he’d been sitting in silence with Guster and enjoying a peaceful dinner.

It was strange. Without anyone else around, in a semi-quiet dining room, he could focus on Guster, the mystery flavor in this bag of Harry Potter jelly beans.

Not that he was thinking of Guster as a flavor. That would involve taste, and he wasn’t going there. It wasn’t Guster’s fault that Carlton had always been curious about him.

Guster was just eating, almost daintily. All manners and etiquette in a way that would have made even Carlton’s mother proud. Well, almost. Even Victoria hadn’t pleased her and Victoria had subscribed to Martha Stewart Living.

Guster, he thought, might actually live like that.

“I’ve never had the chicken here,” Carlton offered abruptly, wondering why he got breathless when Guster dabbed at his mouth with his napkin before answering.

“It’s good. I’ve never eaten here before,” he remarked in return.

“The portions are big and the prices are reasonable.” Carlton took another bite, staring as Guster nodded, as though he honestly found that interesting. Carlton wondered if Guster could cook, and what he did when he got gunpowder stains on his shirts and vinegar didn’t get them out.

Guster might even have an opinion on politics. Doubtless some hippie, liberal, borderline commie notions threatening Carlton’s sacred Second Amendment rights, but an opinion just the same. And not that Carlton was a big fan of every psycho out there on the street owning a firearm. But, he could ask, and Guster might even talk about it. Might…might want to.

“Have you tried _Remy’s_?” Guster took a sip of Coke from his straw. His lips were…his lips were… Carlton blinked.

“I like your suit, Guster.” He felt compelled to say it. Blurt it out. His suits were no nonsense; Guster’s were friendly and easy on the eye. Just the way the lilac looked against his skin for example, bright, attractive, harmless and yet tempting, like a bon bon.

And that was the second time he’d compared Guster to candy in only a few minutes. He tried to think of what candy he would be then, to be fair, and could only come up with black licorice. Nobody but old ladies liked black licorice. Carlton frowned.

“Gus.” Guster leaned across this time, so it was his hand on Carlton’s arm.

“What?” Carlton looked down at it, then up. His face felt hot. He was possibly buzzed. It didn’t stop him from licking his lips. He wanted another drink.

“Gus,” Guster said again, leaning back and taking his hand away. “You always call me Guster. You do that, you know, have different names for everyone. It’s kind of weird. But you can call me Gus.”

“I…” Carlton considered, or tried to, but shook his head and reached for his glass instead. It would be rude not to answer, he decided, and raised his glass again. And deep down, deep down, it meant something. Like Guster approved of him, that he’d needed approval. That it wasn’t Spencer who let people into their clubhouse, it was…“Gus.” Carlton saluted quickly before taking a drink, and only choked a little at the way Guster said “Carlton” back at him before flashing a smile.

Slowly. Intimately. With that same attempt at being suave that he’d had earlier. He even kind of pulled it off.

It couldn’t mean what Carlton thought it did, except that it played through his mind for the rest of the meal, and the conversation about how Carlton couldn’t possibly drive himself home though he’d only had two scotches and was buzzed, not drunk.

And not that he’d been going to drive. He’d been going to wait at the bar and drink water and sober up. But Guster was calm, and full of soda, and reasonable. Guster—Gus—was pretty much always reasonable unless the “supernatural” was involved. Carlton liked that about him, and told him so once Gus had taken his keys and started to drive.

Being in the passenger seat of his own car, without O’Hara being at the wheel, was a new experience. It was what Carlton blamed for his running mouth. That and the scent of cherries and sugar and the pricey clean smell that lingered in Guster’s clothes, like dry cleaning and aftershave. His cologne was like cool water and spices. Expensive. Smooth, with a push for attention beneath the surface that Carlton found vaguely surprising.

“I mean,” he went on, because there was no stopping him. “You have manners, and taste, _and_ you know how to get stains out of silk as well as synthetics. You’re too good for Spencer.”

“I know.” Gus was quietly smug, but only for a moment. “He knows it too.”

“Is he good to you?” Carlton had no idea why he was offering to defend Guster’s honor, but someone had to look out for the nice, normal people in the world, and that was Carlton’s job. “He should be good to you.”

“I can take care of myself too, Lass—Carlton. But thanks.” Gus was a good driver. Slow. Safe. Wore his seatbelt. Carlton nodded, but was still confused.

“You’re going to grow old together. The two of you.” That’s what Spencer kept claiming. They’d share two houses. A pool.

“At least two.” Gus was smooth, parked the car in front of Carlton’s house, stopped the engine. He didn’t get out. Carlton didn’t ask him to. He mostly studied him, trying to think clearly. “There’s enough of Burton Guster to go around,” Gus added, not even bragging. Well, kind of.

“That’s…” Carlton should have sounded more shocked and less out of breath. “That’s not what people do.” Guster had seemed so normal.

“I doubt that. I think people do anything they feel like doing. I thought cops knew that.” Gus—Guster—Gus was still logical though. Logic. Carlton had missed it the last few days.

“But I—“ Carlton wasn’t sure why he was protesting. Wasn’t sure of much, really, except that he hadn’t had an evening out with another sane adult in a very long time. He shut his mouth.

Guster took that as a sign of something. He nodded, then unhooked his seat belt, leaned over, and stopped with their mouths less than an inch apart.

He was frowning. Carlton thought maybe he was frowning too. He tried to wet his lips, as inconspicuously as possible.

“I don’t know… You…” He mumbled idiotically. Guster had better not laugh at him.

He wasn’t laughing. He was still leaning in, holding, waiting…to see if Carlton would pull back.

“I had a good time tonight,” Gus whispered politely and Carlton’s heart gave a kick.

“Was this a _date_?” He suddenly felt every bit as stupid as Spencer thought—has used to think—he was. His chest felt tight. His skin too warm.

This had been a date. For his sake or for Guster’s? The thought came and went, though then he wondered why Guster hadn’t just pounced like the other two, and felt a small band of warmth, right around his middle, at the idea that Guster wouldn’t because Gus wasn’t like that.

Gus was sensible, and reasonable, and smart. He was also caring, and sweet—if someone who’d once cheated on a girlfriend. So this wasn’t cheating…or was it?

What about Shawn? Juliet? Carlton wanted to ask, but didn’t. He also wanted to add that he didn’t need any sort of seduction, or polite romancing, but somehow that didn’t come out either. He thought; Guster wanted me enough to bother. Guster knew everything, but wanted me enough to bother, or wanted to check me out and then decided he still wanted me enough to bother, and that was kind of the same thing. And now the man was leaning, _waiting_.

“I am not the girl here,” Carlton insisted, clearing his throat, and then pushed forward to close the distance because he wasn’t a coward either.

Years without being with a man until yesterday, but this kiss was slow and careful. He’d gotten out his frustration with Spencer, and that tension, so with Guster, he shared breath, got dizzy, found a new taste. His lips…his lips…

Gus didn’t kiss sweet. His kiss was intense, heavy. As urgent as O’Hara, as hungry as Spencer’s, but patient. Guster was a man willing to take his time. Carlton wasn’t the girl here, but he was suddenly, profoundly grateful for Guster’s abnormally girly sensibilities. Carlton wanted, needed, time here. Those lips.

He pulled back and then came forward to kiss Guster again before he could catch his breath, putting out a hand and finding the silk fibers of the purple shirt, grunting with a new appreciation when Guster grabbed his tie and his hand moved against Carlton’s chest as his fingers stroked over the fabric.

Arousal was building, slowly, but there. Startling but not, considering the sounds of heavy breathing filling his car, the warm air between them when he tried to catch his breath and ended up sliding back for kiss number three. He could kiss Guster for hours. Talk about stains and kiss Guster and, just like that, he was right there, inhaling spice and sugar and yes, Guster was everything nice.

Nice got Carlton hard. Along with a lot of other things, but he would work with this. Roll up his sleeves and get in there and let that nice mouth slide down his throat, let those nice hands slid to his holster, let that nice part of Guster that was enough to go around into him.

Guster’s hand slipped, just for a moment, into Carlton’s lap, not an accident, but still a pretty smooth attempt at one, and then he finally pulled back when he felt the twitch against his palm. He licked his lips, which looked full and inviting. He actually licked them twice.

Carlton wondered if he liked licorice. He’d maybe lost his mind.

He had to clear his throat again.

“Would you like to come in? For coffee? You can call a cab inside.” In the morning, he hoped, and then went tense in a way he hadn’t since his last date, months ago. He was sweating, jumpy now that Guster was gone, because now he could think about how Guster was still going to leave after this, just like the other two, and though he hadn’t realized he’d wanted Guster too, to be his friend, or more, until a few minutes ago, tomorrow was going to hurt just the same.

It was going to be hell. But he hoped, knew, Guster was worth it.

Oblivious to Carlton’s pounding heart, Gus inclined his head and moved to get out of the car.

“I’d be delighted, Carlton,” he agreed, not interested in coffee. Not one damn bit.

Carlton knew that because manners or not, they barely made it inside before he was against his front door, half-dressed, frantically going for kiss number four, and reveling in the sensation of peeling away Gus’s crisp suit to find the warm skin underneath.

 

 

Carlton woke up in a dark mood that had everything to do with two glasses of scotch and nothing to do with waking up alone and sore. In the same way he hadn’t stumbled out of bed, noticed his suit from yesterday neatly draped over a chair, and thought, that was it. Though it had been, there was no avoiding that thought. Guster’s visit was clearly the end of the whole…whatever it was. At least Guster had stayed the night. Sort of.

He’d stayed _most_ of the night but left early, after making a pot of coffee and leaving a note about how Carlton ought to try a different brand. He’d even left a coupon.

Carlton’s stack of coupons sat in plain view by the fridge. Guster must carry his around. It was the more practical approach. Carlton tried to think of it in those terms and not feel like someone had left money on his dresser—or a piece of paper offering a dollar off a can of Illy Italian Roast on his dresser. Because whatever the coupon was about, it still meant it was all over. Whatever the relationship…arrangement…that the others had, Carlton wasn’t a part of it. He had been an aberration, or some attempt to smooth out a mistake, he wasn’t sure which, but he wasn’t going to think about it unless a shrink ordered him to. He was just going to do his job, be grateful he had that, and his—tenuous at best—sort of friendship with them. They could be polite, even mature…well not Spencer. But Carlton could manage him—that.

If he mouthed off, Carlton would just… well…he’d leave it O’Hara and Guster. It was probably for the best that way.

Nonetheless, after drinking about four cups of his apparently subpar coffee and grabbing his car keys from where Guster had left them, he realized he didn’t want to go into work. The thought took his breath away.

Work was everything. Sure it didn’t have the same meaning if he had no one to share his victories with, or any one to confer with over leads—or anyone to blame when things went horribly wrong. And sure, it was going to be difficult to refocus on just his caseload now that he’d been allowed to glimpse something else that seemed to work around, with, toward, the pursuit of justice. But it was work. It was the one thing that had never let him down when his relationships had. He was just tired. Worried. Slightly uncertain as to what his reception would be.

But he was a detective. _The_ head detective. Not a chicken, or a fool, or a _stud_. He tightened the knot in his tie, put his game face on, and strode into the station as though slinking in had never once crossed his mind.

He kept his frown in place because booze and not much sleep meant he had a headache, and because O’Hara seemed to be a chipper mood. It was disconcerting and comforting all at once, because it was all so _normal_ , after everything that hadn’t been normal. She was chattering away about some movie she’d watched last night and ignoring the grunts he gave her for a reply.

Carlton liked grunts. They were nicely noncommittal and useful when the person you were seeing wanted your opinion about something you couldn’t give a crap about. He still didn’t understand that; firstly, O’Hara was watching movies at home? He’d thought somehow with everything that her lifestyle was…busier…than that. And then surely O’Hara had friends she could ask about movies or whatever. Most people did. People who knew movies. Like Spencer. She ought to ask Spencer. Or Guster, who’d be polite about anything. Carlton didn’t even know what she was talking about, films of the Eighties that she’d never seen, Wilfred Brimley, it was confusing.

He was about to stop her, ask her to either start over and explain or shut up, when he heard the sound of a Spencer and Guster banter session coming their way. He almost put his head down. It was early; he should have been allowed more time to prepare for this ordeal. Just O’Hara was difficult enough. Guster should have had work until at least one, and Spencer never got up early unless he had to.

Not that Carlton knew their schedules. Or that O’Hara had probably watched that movie on that new streaming thing she was using with her Netflix. Or, okay, yes he did, but only because they all talked all the time around him and there was only so much he could tune out. Honestly, it was like they thought he ought to care about these things. Or knew he secretly did.

“I’m telling you, Gus, Guttenberg’s best film is either _Short Circuit_ or _The Boyfriend School_ —a little seen gem co-starring Ms Jami Gertz, and if you say _Cocoon_ again--”

Carlton tried to stop listening, though of course _Three Men and a Baby_ came to mind. He resolutely did not mention it, because he didn’t think he was expected to. This was what they’d always done, coming into the station to hang around his desk—O’Hara’s desk, and spout babble until they got what they wanted. Which had, presumably, been O’Hara’s attention. They had that now. They didn’t need anything from him.

It was like nothing was different for them. And no, he did not sigh at the thought like a lovesick _Twilight_ fan. He summoned his experience, wisdom, and sadly, age, as well as all of his manhood to look at them as though nothing had changed, as though he’d never wanted it to change.

Just like O’Hara had done when she’d first seen him that morning, they both paused for a moment before shaking their heads and moving on.

The last shred of hope Carlton had been holding onto, for what he still wasn’t even sure, shriveled into a little ball in his chest. He looked back down.

The nail in the coffin was the “Good morning, Lassiter” from Gus—Guster. Carlton grunted without looking up. There was another pause. Maybe the sinking feeling inside him was just hunger. Maybe he should have eaten something and not just downed a pot of coffee.

Above him, the conversation carried on, though the subject and tone shifted.

“Shawn, do you have to eat that right now?” Guster’s voice rose. Carlton looked up despite himself and saw that Spencer was opening a carton of Ben and Jerry’s that he’d pulled from god knew where.

“What the hell, Spencer?” It was drawn from him, but damn it, there were rules. There were always rules. They might not make sense, they might not be written down, they might not even be actual rules, but they were there. “Can’t you eat like an adult?”

Spencer grinned around yet another mouthful. The stuff was _pink_. Carlton avoided looking at his lips, swung a look to O’Hara. Her lipstick was pink today. Somehow that made it worse.

“I am, Lassie.” Spencer interrupted Carlton’s thoughts, though Carlton was certain his face was changing color to match O’Hara’s mou—the Ben and Jerry’s. Spencer ate some more. “People eat yogurt for breakfast all the time. They have to for digestive health, Jamie Lee Curtis says so. Where else do you suggest I get it? The coating on Good N Plentys?” He snorted like that was the strangest, weirdest thing he’d ever heard. Carlton jerked and did not think about licorice.

“Not _frozen_ yogurt, Shawn.” O’Hara actually seemed amused.

“But this is better,” Spencer focused on her, coming over to lean over her desk in an obviously flirtatious way. “And delicious. Am I right?” He held out one frosty spoonful and Carlton only swallowed when O’Hara did. He closed his eyes, but he could still see her tasting it, licking it from her lips. He opened his eyes and burned all over when he saw Guster looking too.

“You know, that does taste just like the ice cream.” O’Hara was all happy, normal agreement, as though anything about this was normal or happy.

“People don’t eat ice cream for breakfast either!” Carlton heard himself snap. It brought all their eyes back to him. Which had not been what he’d wanted. Not at all.

“Why not?” Spencer slid from O’Hara’s desk and stared at him, as though he was actually listening. Which was ridiculous. Carlton looked to Guster, then O’Hara. They were both silent. Staring at him.

“Well sure, it would be fattening every day, but other than that, give me one good reason, Lass,” Shawn went on when Carlton only managed a quiet, “Because you just don’t” and couldn’t think of anything else.

“Because…”

“Thought so.” Carlton hated that smug smile that said he was missing something obvious. Thank goodness Guster cleared his throat.

“Actually, Shawn, breakfast is an important meal.” He had a lecturing tone and addressed all of them. “You should get most of your major nutrients early in the day so your body has a chance to break them down. It’s important to eat a full and balanced meal.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Shawn rolled his eyes. He ate some more. Carlton glanced at Guster. He was wearing more light purple today, with hints of pale red. He looked good. Damn good. He did his best not to notice.

“Thank you, Guster,” he offered, politely, in a totally different voice from the way he’d demanded more with Guster inside of him.

“I took Physiology for two semesters.” Guster shrugged. That said however, he stepped over to Spencer and took the carton for moment to have a taste too. He hummed and took some more before Spencer grabbed it back. “It really does taste just like ice cream.” He was almost thoughtful, as though he’d been asked to judge.

Maybe he had, because then Spencer moved forward to perch his tight ass on Carlton’s desk and held out a spoonful of rapidly melting frozen yogurt.

“Try this fro yo, Lassie. It’s amazing.” He nudged the spoon toward Carlton’s mouth. Carlton looked up, past the mess of dark cherry and pale pink fro yo and bits of chocolate and into Spencer’s surprisingly serious expression.

He tried to remember that things were never what they seemed with Spencer, that he was supposed to be distancing himself from them all now that they were done with him, that he didn’t like fro y—damn it, frozen yogurt, and not that he hadn’t eaten any breakfast at all.

Also… He wrinkled his nose.

“I’m not eating that. You’ve all used that spoon.” That was just gross. O’Hara made a noise.

“You’ve slept with everyone here but you won’t share a spoon?” The disbelief in her voice made it seem too loud though it barely carried across to his desk. Maybe that was hearing it at all. Carlton went still.

He couldn’t help it, his gaze went to her, and then to Spencer, and then finally to Guster. It had been said out loud. Surely there would be some kind of repercussion. Shame. Embarrassment. Anything.

But they weren’t moving. Not even Spencer. Frozen yogurt dripped onto Carlton’s desk.

They didn’t seem angry. Or jealous. They didn’t seem anything except impatient for him to eat the freaking yogurt. He glared for another moment, then gave in with a huff when his stomach rumbled.

“Fine. But if you say fro yo one more time--” He didn’t get to finish. Spencer pushed the spoon forward and Carlton was tasting Cherry Garcia whether he liked it or not.

Cold, he thought. Cold but melting on his tongue, sweet-smelling, sweet-tasting, cherry and chocolate and it really did taste like ice cream. He swallowed, spent a moment savoring it before the taste was gone, then grunted.

“Told you…” Reading his mind, or knowing him that well, Shawn was gloating. Or, Carlton thought he was, but when he dared to glance up, Spencer was talking to the other two.

Juliet—O’Hara was smiling, faintly, but straightened it out after a moment.

“Yes, Shawn you were right, again. Now leave him alone. We have work to do and--”

“Ah, you’re all here, good.” They all stopped to hear the Chief. She and Henry stopped at the edge of the circle they made, stared for a moment at the frozen yogurt before clearly deciding to ignore it. “I wanted to talk about your recent murder.”

Carlton sat up, noticed O’Hara did as well. Spencer and Guster stood together. He had a moment to picture how they all must have looked, lined up practically side by side, though he and O’Hara were at their desks, and then he cleared his throat.

“About that, Chief.” He spoke up before she could take any blame. She hadn’t done anything wrong. “At the club, we…” His voice only cracked a little, but the Chief arched an eyebrow to silence him.

“You successfully found the murderer, but should I ask how you didn’t notice the observation of a jealous boyfriend at that club?” It was the kind of question that hit a man right in the solar plexus. Unless that man was Spencer. He raised his hand.

“I’d say no. It would be like asking why Gus smells faintly of the sometimes overpowering, yet traditional, manly, and so comforting you can’t get enough scent of Old Spice this morning despite showering.” He delivered that line the way he delivered every crazy but true thing he’d ever said, with a smile.

Carlton coughed. O’Hara glanced to the side. Guster smacked Shawn in the arm. Spencer smacked him back. Only when the Chief smiled could Carlton breathe again. He could even nod and narrow his attention to the file she was handing them. A new case. Thank god.

“Not you two,” she added, crooking her finger at Spencer and Guster and walking toward her office. Henry followed too, glaring between them without comment. Carlton almost couldn’t breathe again. But if Henry suspected what Carlton had done with his son, and his son’s best friend, and his son’s girlfriend, he kept it to himself. For now.

Carlton took that as a sign. That what he was thinking was too impossible to be real, or that even if it were, it wouldn’t be for him. Because there were rules. And Carlton wasn’t that type of a guy, and even if he were and he joined a dating site right now and honestly described himself, he doubted he’d get one response, much less three. Much less from three people so...his mind ran through words. Beautiful. Smart. Loyal. Fun.

Even if they were also clearly a few bricks shy of a full load.

So he shoved those feelings aside, was grateful it was almost the weekend, and went about digging up leads with O’Hara. Whatever case Shawn and Gus had didn’t involve theirs, and there was no sign of either of them or their little blue car throughout the day.

O’Hara was entirely professional. Carlton was relieved and not disappointed. They worked their cases, got some good leads, some nice statements, and at the end of the day, Carlton had a feeling that he could come in tomorrow if he wanted and wrap it up on his own.

He just might. It wasn’t like he had anything else planned for the weekend. The case was pretty routine. It wouldn’t take long. What he and O’Hara really needed to do was find a new way into that club to get at the drug supplier. But when they’d been at lunch and he had mentioned possibly threatening to close the club, or at least to card the underage…everyone…that had been in there, O’Hara had looked at him funny over her burger.

She’d also stolen some of his fries. He hadn’t even protested.

“They’re kids, Carlton. It’s the drugs that are the problem.”

“Kids?” He’d snorted. That sex they’d been having had more than he’d ever gotten as a teenager…and maybe as an adult. Maybe that was his problem. But he was not going to ask. No way. Never.

Then things would go back to normal. And he could forget belonging, or momentarily not being alone, and of course, all the sex.

But then, thinking about the sex. The amazing, odd, only too brief sexual encounters made him faintly angry. They should never have involved him if they didn’t mean it. That damn shirt…he was more than just a STUD.

He’d never had to say _that_ to himself before. Or out loud. O’Hara’s facial expression had seemed to imply that she’d heard that. He’d retreated behind work without acknowledging it and stayed that unapproachable until the day was over and they were back at the station. He filled out a few more reports, cleaned sticky fro yo off his desk, and tried not to watch as O’Hara got ready to go home.

But he had to when she stopped at his desk.

“Where are your keys? Let’s get out of here.” She smiled. It faded slightly when Carlton only stared at her. Then she sighed. “Carlton.”

He may have shivered but he admitted to nothing. Her smile returned.

“Carlton. Trust me.” She held out her hand. He gritted his teeth.

“I don’t need the breakup talk, O’Hara.” He tried to be firm. Not waver or get blubbery. Her eyes actually softened and he wondered, fleetingly, just when he’d gotten so easy to read. Hopefully before they’d all, almost, seen him naked.

“Carlton,” she whispered patiently, like she’d done then. “Trust me.” It made him swallow, reach for his keys.

“I’m still armed,” he warned her. But she was his partner. He gave her the keys.

“So am I.” She shrugged and then he was being urged up and shooed ahead of her out of the station, down to the parking lot, where he almost turned right around at the sight of Spencer and Guster waiting at the Crown Vic.

“What is this?” He’d faced mobsters with less fear. He was patted on the shoulder, then O’Hara went to the driver’s side.

“Carpool.” The dry word let him focus on the other two, whoever had said it. “We’re all going to the same place anyway.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” he sneered breathlessly. He didn’t need public humiliation either. But O’Hara calmly let them into the backseat, leaving the passenger seat for Carlton. His hand slipped on the handle, but he was sitting down and strapping on his seat belt before he could think better of it.

“I’m hungry,” Spencer immediately whined. “Are we getting food? Gus and I haven’t eaten in like two hours!” He waited. “There’s a fro yo place around the corner.”

“Oh my god stop saying fro yo, Shawn!” O’Hara snapped. Carlton stared at her, nodding in approval despite himself. Spencer just complained some more, like always, but he settled back as he did. “How about you?” O’Hara turned to Carlton as she started the car hit the AC. “Hungry? Where should we get some dinner? There’s no use doing anything on an empty stomach.”

“Anything…?” Carlton repeated warily, then replayed the rest of it. Were they asking him? He didn’t think they’d consult him on…anything. He wet his mouth. “I heard _Remy’s_ is good.”

“I have a coupon for there,” Guster volunteered. Carlton had no idea why he blushed at that, but he did, and turned the AC up. Since he was in the passenger seat, he even aimed some of the vents toward the back when Spencer bitched again. For a second after that, there was silence.

“We’re all going together?” He had to ask.

“Yeah, why not?” He knew it was Shawn, but O’Hara had the same question on her face.

“Because this is weird.” He had to say it. People didn’t do this. “You’re all weird.” Except that his voice rose at the end, like he was asking. He stared at the dashboard for the minute of hurt silence and then at the sudden explosion from three different directions.

“Carlton, you check your food for poison!” Juliet pointed out.

“You wear a face wig for fun, Lass,” Shawn chimed in.

“And you sleep with a gun under your pillow,” Gus added, and at least it made the other two focus on him and not Carlton.

“You spent the night?” Shawn demanded, almost sounding jealous, and maybe he was, because he went on. “I didn’t get to do that. He got all touchy so I left him alone.”

And it was back to being Carlton’s fault. He got three glares. It was like being married again. Times three.

He went totally and in all ways still. He didn’t even inhale until he was seeing stars from lack of oxygen.

“I have no idea what’s happening here.” He said it. Finally. Out loud.

“Yes you do.” O’Hara—Juliet, sometimes—flapped a hand at him. Okay, he kind of did. But…but…people don’t really do this, did they?

“It’s really less like a porno then you’d think.” Shawn was thoughtful, even when reading his mind. “More like Musical Chairs.”

“It’s nothing like Musical Chairs, Shawn.” Gus corrected him sternly.

“Duck Duck Goose?”

“Knock it off, Shawn.” Juliet shared an eye roll with Carlton before starting the car. Shawn knocked it off. Carlton blinked, then turned to look into the backseat.

“I think you’re thinking of Spin the Bottle, Spencer,” he remarked, calmly enough, surprising even himself. Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe this was some kind of breakdown and he was really in a padded cell somewhere. His heart didn’t care. It thumped. He refused to think like a puppy’s tail against the floor. But it thumped.

These people couldn’t want him in their lives, could they? But Shawn took his idea and started to roll with it, naming other childhood games, until Guster vetoed Red Light, Green Light but couldn’t make a ruling on Twister, and then he changed the subject.

“Next time I call shotgun.”

“No way.” Carlton ignored the pouty face with the ease of practice. He knew Spencer didn’t mean it. “You two belong in the backseat.” And they apparently knew enough about him not to be too insulted at that. O’Hara smirked again. Shawn gave a weak howl. Gus remained completely unconcerned, except to say that when they were in his car, he drove.

“If that’s decided, can we go?” O’Hara finally interrupted them. She was looking at Carlton. They all were, until he nodded.

“Oh hey, Lassie,” Shawn started as they pulled out into traffic, “Gus has been meaning to ask, do you swim and/or enjoy a diving board?”

“I have not, Shawn,” Gus protested, without much heat.

“Leave him alone, both of you!” O’Hara silenced them, and Carlton, very carefully, let himself sit back for the ride.

 

The End


	2. Best Idea Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Shawn lied. Sometimes it is like a porno. Sequel snippet to “Carpool”

Shawn let himself in and forgot all about his barely-even-tasted smoothie when he heard that sharp, gasping little moan that meant Jules was close to coming, that sound like she was saying “Oh” but couldn’t manage it because something felt so, so good.

He put the drink down, then moved quickly but silently toward the bedroom. He wasn’t surprised to see Jules and Lassie in there; they’d both had the day off and it was hot, and Jules got lusty when it was hot out. Like a Renaissance Faire wench, or a heat-activated porn star, probably some sort of Miami thing. Lassie probably hadn’t known that.

He did now.

Shawn stopped dead in the bedroom doorway, his blood pounding, his dick getting suddenly and painfully hard to behold the awesome sight of the still somewhat stuffy detective naked and bent over that huge bed, over Jules, with his head between her legs.

Jules was naked too, in the middle of the bed on her back, legs bent and wide open, with the faintest sheen of sweat on her skin despite the AC from their sexy workout. Whatever Lassie was doing with his tongue made her arch her back and make that little cry again, an almost “Oh” because she was almost about to O.

Shawn adjusted himself through his jeans, just watching because it was quite a sight—he’d lied to Lassie, sometimes it _was_ like a porno—and because Lassie was still kind of shy about the whole thing and Shawn didn’t want to spook him.

But, dude. Fuck. He adjusted himself again, grunting just a little at the image of Lassie’s big hands on Jules’s thighs, how one slipped to cup her ass and pull her closer to his mouth. Jules had soft skin. Lassie had calloused hands.

Jules let out a gasp. _Her_ hands were buried in the sheets, tight fists opening and closing, and then she was speaking again, parting her lips to beg like Lassie was so, so good. Which he was, Shawn had to concur.

“Please, please, Carlton.” Jules’s voice said she’d begged before. She wet her mouth, swallowed, then wet it again, and Shawn had to wet his. He knew what Lassie’s mouth felt like too of course, when he was down in the naughty places and determined to make you happy, but knowing and feeling weren’t the same.

He wondered if Lassie and Jules had fucked too and felt a pull inside. That sounded good. Really, really good. He touched himself again as he thought about if this was the encore and not the main event. He hoped not. He really, truly did. He didn’t think it was, since Lassie was hard, like full on, frustrated, flagpole hard. His cock all dark and glisteny the way Shawn liked it.

He let out a tiny whimper at that and Jules opened her eyes. They fixed on him, bright, hungry, and Shawn nodded. A second later and he was shirtless, pantless, shoeless, and climbing up onto the bed.

Lassie started, looking up and freezing, pink all over. Poor nervous Lassie still wasn’t sure it was all okay. Just for that, Shawn smiled at him. But then Jules lifted a hand to run it through his hair and urge him down and Shawn forgot about Lassie for the moment.

He licked Jules’s mouth open, kissing another little moan from her, before dropping to lick away that sheen of sweat. He lifted his gaze with his mouth over her ribcage, and then at her breast, finally let himself look at Lassie again. He kind of held his breath too, because fuck, dude, this was hot. Please please don’t let Lassie panic before there was fucking. The man still had some issues with playtime, and he’d never had a group playtime yet that Shawn knew of, and Shawn so wanted to be there when he tried the jungle gym.

He put his mouth down, sucking gently, letting his stubble be rough the way she liked, and Jules got louder.

Carlton’s eyes were wide, very blue, and all kinds of horny as he watched. Shawn totally understood. This _was_ a big moment for a guy. But Carlton was also a gentleman, and when Shawn only continued to roll one pointed, perfect nipple on his tongue, Lass bent back down, using both hands to slide Jules up and draw these new, starving cries out of her.

Her grip tightened in his hair, and Shawn took that as his cue as put a hand to her stomach, petting as she arched up and reached for it, coming and coming again when Lassie wouldn’t, didn’t stop until she was panting hoarsely and trembling under Shawn’s mouth.

Shawn forgot about Lass for a sec, though not his hard on, which he was planning on Lassie dealing with, and hopefully with that same determination, and lifted his head to watch Jules come back to earth.

He kind of liked that. Gus thought _before_ was hotter. They’d agreed to disagree the same way they had about bottoming. Gus was anti. Shawn was so, so pro.

“Shawn…Carlton,” Jules murmured, which some would have taken for a compliment on their mad tag team skills, but Shawn knew it was an order. An order he and Little Shawn approved of. They just had to get Lassie to play along.

He nodded again, pausing to run his thumb over that hot, wet nipple one last time and make Jules shiver, and then he was turning to face Lassie.

A stunned, quiet, and possibly—no, _definitely_ —worried and embarrassed Lassie. But Shawn shook his head as Lassie stood up, and then scooted to the edge of the bed—yay California King!—to grab Lass by the hips.

“Carlton,” Jules said again, in that weird, calming voice she only ever used on Lassie, and Lassie’s shoulders twitched up. His whole body jerked when Shawn grinned at him, but a startled moan slipped out when Shawn went to work on his dick, which was work that Shawn actually liked. Also work he was very, very good at.

He got his mouth around that cock, tightening his hands in case Lassie freaked, but Lassie only reacted like that once, and then he just breathed out, loud, ragged, like a man barely hanging on and not saying a word as Shawn sucked him.

Shawn was the one who groaned, liking this uncertain Lassie though not as much as the _other_ Lassie. He moved in, licking to milk a few drops and then swallowing until Lassie’s hands came to his hair, gripping fiercely and giving Shawn a hint of that other Lassie. Pushy, rough, awesome, wants-to-come Lassie was about to make an appearance. Lassie was practically selfless until he wanted to come. Then he was an animal—a sexy tiger bear. Jules would have agreed.

And after all, that’s what she wanted to see. And Shawn enjoyed putting on a good show, obviously. He just needed Lassie a _little_ more wound up to get him to follow the plan.

With no warning, Shawn pulled away from that cock with one last sucky sound that put more red in Lassie’s face.

He kind of hated doing it—he really liked Lassie’s dick. Good size, not a jawbreaker but comfortable, and as clean as a whistle unlike a few in his experience.

But he flapped a hand at Jules for an explanation, to avoid that hurt that still popped up in those blue eyes sometimes, and moved back on the bed.

He still had his undies on, but he crawled over onto his hands and knees for an inviting little wiggle. He turned his head and kept his eyes up and on Carlton, really hoping he looked sexy and kind of certain he did from the way Carlton’s color changed and his pupils got all big and of course, how his drippy-wet-from-Shawn’s-mouth cock did a little dance.

Shawn grinned. Lassie’s eyes narrowed, but the man couldn’t stop his attention from wandering down to Shawn’s ass, and then probably to the achy, throbby bulge in Shawn’s man panties. Lassie liked Shawn’s dick too, but especially his ass. In fact, Shawn thought Lass might have a crush on it.

Shawn had a bit of a crush on Lassie too. They all did. There was reason Lassie had been invited in, and not just because the circle felt lacking without his grouchy, cranky very safe presence. The man was hot.

He could have watched Lassie fuck Jules of course. But…Shawn reached down with both of them watching and touched himself, pushing down the elastic of his underwear to cop a better feel of himself, baring most of his ass, and then slid a finger down to press in, just a little, just enough…he was in the mood for something else.

So was Jules. She sat up enough to give them room. And watch.

Lassie gulped. He actually _gulped_ , his Adam’s apple bobbing. Shawn had to smile, even though he felt like he’d been hard since forever and Lassie still wasn’t moving.

“Lube and stuff’s in the drawer,” he said, too casually, because Lassie would know that and wouldn’t care for his tone, and then couldn’t help a moan when Lassie full on glared at him. There he was. Other Lassie was a lot like Arresting Lassie.

Shawn shut his eyes and faced front, obedient a little too late. A few moments later he was facedown on the sheets, with his underoos gone, and long, slick fingers pushing inside him. Jules slid down next to them. Weakly. Helplessly. Shawn knew the feeling.

He made a new sound, like a hungry kitty. He couldn’t help it.

He lifted himself up, onto his elbows anyway, and then spread his hands out and leaned back down, stretching really. He could have kissed Jules if he’d stretched a little more, but he didn’t, just shared a secret smile with her when Lassie’s fingers hit the sweet spot.

He gasped. His throat felt dry. Empty. He wished he had something to suck. Damn. Of course Gus had gone into work. Shawn could have totally been their two-hole punch.

“Best idea ever,” he rated it breathlessly anyway as her eyes went wide, and maybe Jules had seen him and Gus do this once or twice, but this was new. Shawn with Lassiter, in front of her. He different around Lassiter then he was around just her or just Gus. She probably was too. And dude, now he _had_ to watch them sometime, watch Lassie and Jules really go at it. In this bed. Maybe later. He could watch like Jules was watching this. Wide-eyed. Sweaty. Flushed. Turned on. He kind of wondered sometimes what she found hot about it, but he usually figured it was like girl on girl porn, or he was so distracted by then he never got around to pursuing the thought.

Speaking of girl action, he tried to glance sideways to see if she was touching herself, because holy crap that would be hot too, but then Lassie hit it again, stroked, smacked it up, flipped it, rubbed it down and generally made Shawn’s sweet spot—and Shawn—his bitch and Shawn could only squeeze his eyes closed and try not to grind too much on the sheets.

Jules made a hitchy, uneven breathing sound. That meant Shawn’s face must have looked good. Or Lassie’s. And dude, that would have been worth seeing too.

Too late now. Shawn bent his head to totally indicate that he’d had enough of the opening act, and Jules was moaning, which was only making it worse, and dude, it was so unfair how often girls could do this, but at least Lassie’s grip on his hips was bruising tight and on the edge of desperate.

Lassie spoke suddenly, exhaling, “Shawn. Juliet.” in a shocked voice that did nothing to kill the mighty Lassie boner nudging at Shawn’s asshole.

Shawn opened his eyes, more for Lassie’s continuing hesitation, and saw Jules looking up, knew she was exchanging some secret cop partner thought with Lassie, because after a second her mouth curved. Her face was red, like she was a touch embarrassed at _herself_ even. Shawn liked that. It helped when he had no idea what they were planning, only that they were planning something.

Sure, Shawn trusted them, but still, secrets were no fair. He was about to protest, really, and not yell at Lassie to bone him already, when Jules’s hand crept over and wrapped around his dick.

Okay, so he’d been misbehaving and deserved a little punishment. Shawn was ready to admit it. He was also ready to take whatever they were going to give him. He groaned and panted out the best “Bom chicka wow wow” he could manage.

Lassie pushed in, the good, solid fit that Shawn remembered, and bit back something rough and demanding and totally complimentary of Shawn’s ass. Or maybe Jules’s mad tag team skills. It didn’t really matter. Shawn’s breathing stopped, and Lassie gripped him harder to hold him still, not that he was moving.

He was just panting, face to the cool, cool sheets because this felt, so, so good, and then Lassie moved his hips and Jules started to stroke him and Shawn was going to die of awesome.

He did think, for a second, that Gus was going to be pissy when he got home and found out what he’d missed, but they could make it up to him, and anyway, the thought didn’t last long.

He shut his eyes, spread his legs, and moaned. Oh yeah. Best idea ever. Bring on the heat wave.

 

The End

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Best Idea Ever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/271611) by [rispacooper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper)




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